


Your Silence is My Favorite Sound

by hhamlet



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Feels, Canon Divergence - Post-Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Language, Kissing, M/M, Mutual Pining, One Shot, Order Member Draco Malfoy, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Draco Malfoy, Pining Draco Malfoy, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-16 12:47:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29825169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hhamlet/pseuds/hhamlet
Summary: Draco Malfoy has been trapped inside of Shell Cottage for nearly half a year. He's growing restless with the loneliness and knows it's only a matter of time before the Order interrupts his isolation. It doesn't help that Harry Potter is meant to be his keeper, too, and the longer the two men spend in each other's company, the more Draco realizes his walls are threatening to come tumbling down.Draco has built a solitary life for himself in Shell Cottage. So why does Harry fucking Potter decide to disrupt their routine and ruin everything?
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 2
Kudos: 91





	Your Silence is My Favorite Sound

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there, everyone! I've been absent from the world of fandom and fanfiction for so long, but I needed something to work on in-between projects and school work. I might turn this into a series or collections of one shots in this universe, but I wanted to try my hand at this.

❝ _i don't want your crown._

_see, i have to burn your kingdom down. ❞_

* * *

Shell Cottage was a lonely bungalow, sequestered against a seaside cliff that looked down over the sparkling sea below. Sometimes, in the dark of night, Draco would lie in his bed, his fingers thumbing at a loose thread in his quilt as he listened to waves crash against the shore. In the uncertainty that had become his life—or imprisonment, depending on how you looked at it—Draco looked forward to those quiet moments after twilight, when shafts of moonlight spread across the bed and the sound of the ocean pulled his mind away from whatever terrors inflicted themselves upon him in isolation. Sometimes, on especially restless nights, he’d pull the small end table from the corner of the room over beside the window, tugging the old, chipped Wizard’s chess set out from underneath the bed and arranging it on the table. He could spend an hour or two clearing his mind, moving the pieces around on the board and listening to the pointers the bishop _always_ tried to give him.

Sometimes, Potter joined him. They never spoke of it the next day, but it dangled there between them. A promise of things to come.

Potter had been his keeper these past four months. Or perhaps they’d kept each other; it was a fact Draco didn’t spend much time reflecting over, for fear his traitorous thoughts would veer in a direction he wasn’t wholly comfortable venturing to. Nearly the entire world thought Harry Potter was dead. Only those closest inside of the Order of the Phoenix knew Potter lived; knew that they were all regrouping their ranks to fight the Dark Lord one last time, in the hopes that the element of surprise would cause a ripple in the ranks of the Death Eaters. Even now, the entire idea seemed foolish to him. How could anyone believe Potter was dead when he burned brighter than any star? His infuriating end would surely be cataclysmic; privately, Draco supposed that if Harry Potter ever _did_ perish at the hands of the Dark Lord, every star in the galaxy would wink out.

Thinking about Potter: the first rule Draco had prohibited for himself. Frustration laced his thoughts as he tore from bed, throwing the quilt back so that he could sit up and run a hand through his hair. This proximity was driving him mad—invading his thoughts and suffocating his senses. It had been easier to feign hatred when they were children in school. Indeed, a part of Draco Malfoy was confident he always _had_ hated Harry Potter, the outrageous Orphan Who Lived. He hated the ridiculous way his hair stood up on all ends, as though he’d just tumbled out of bed and had thrown on the first clothes he could find. He hated that stupid, vain pride and courage that had marked his absurd little trio’s movements for years. But mostly, Draco hated that he hadn’t come tonight. He glanced over at the table set, the chess pieces waiting expectantly for its players, and a scowl bloomed across his alabaster face.

Things were changing at Shell Cottage. His isolation was becoming infested with parasites. Members of the Order were expected to arrive tomorrow, in hopes of regrouping their efforts and moving forward in the next stage of their call to action. This meant little to Draco in the long run, as he was still bound and chained here like a _dog_. Weaselbee would arrive, and Granger was sure to follow; Bill and Fleur would want to check up on their home, and Draco suspected their brother George would tag along, too. It was likely they would bring Ginny, too, but Draco didn’t want to think about that. Not now. The house would soon be flooded with the Weasleys and their friends and Potter had not come.

Draco stood, the bed beneath him creaking as he shifted his weight off it; he ran his clammy hands against his pajama bottoms. He needed fresh air, or something to drink, at the very least, as he smoothed down his hair and padded out of the room. The house was silent beyond his hallway, and it took every ounce of energy not to shoot a furtive glance towards Potter’s door as he passed it. Dark and completely silent; Potter had likely been asleep for hours to prepare for his friends arriving in the early morning hours. It didn’t bother him—why should it bother him? Why should he be the slightest bit concerned with the fact that he had grown used to a routine of sorts while he lived here, and the presence of others threatened what tentative peace he’d built for himself?

Perhaps he’d hex Potter’s legs together in the morning when the stupid scarred git was trying to fix himself breakfast. Just to expel some of his irritation.

As Draco made his way into the kitchen, he noticed a shadowy silhouette at the table in the kitchen nook, nursing a mug of tea and watching the water below from the wide kitchen window. Draco froze, momentarily breathless at the sight of Potter. The Boy Who Lived tilted his head, watching the tide ebb and flow below them, as shards of moonlight refracted off his glasses. Artists would paint Harry Potter in the years to come. They would create landscapes of battle and decay, where a boy with a mangled scar faced down against the Dark Lord. They would show the version of Potter that had been crafted by the public; they would support the propaganda that Dumbledore had sought to exploit for so many years.

But would they capture his viridian green eyes, bright and vibrant as a meadow in springtime? Would they note the rough callouses that rounded his palms and tipped his fingers, from where he’d gripped his wand too tight in battle? And his hair—the way it moved like an ocean at midnight. No amount of color and shadow could accurately detail the way that his hair flowed like a river, spilling across his forehead and hiding the scar that lurked beneath his unruly locks. Harry Potter was beautiful—and Draco _hated_ him for it.

Draco shifted and Potter stirred, tearing his eyes away from the water in favor of gazing at the blonde who now stood in the doorway. The two men’s gazes met, but neither spoke as Draco made his way over to the kitchen cabinet, snatching a mug from its contents and reaching for the still-warm kettle Potter had left on the stove. He prepared tea for himself, ignoring the way Potter’s gaze seemed to trail along his backside, as though—as though he expected Draco to speak. As though he expected him to say anything that could fill the void that now spread between them.

“I thought—” Potter began, and then stopped abruptly, his mouth snapping shut and his jaw working as Draco turned to stare at him. Here was his opening—he could slip away to his room, mug still in hand, without another word to Potter. They could somehow both preserve what remained of their dignity, where they offered companionship only in the wan hours of night, and neither man would have to sacrifice whatever tentative calm they’d built between one another. But as Draco stared at Potter, he just felt… _tired_. So the Malfoy heir moved forward, quietly, and took the seat opposite the house’s only other occupant. His fingers were curled around his mug so tightly Draco could see his knuckles whitening. The warmth from the ceramic mug warmed his frosted fingers, and he gazed expectantly at Potter as the other attempted to think of something reasonable to say.

Pathetic. Here they were, twenty years old, and Potter still couldn’t string his fucking sentences together.

“You thought? That’s a new one.” Draco murmured, leaning back in his chair and taking a slow sip from his mug. Potter flushed with color, but it wasn’t anger that flooded his cheeks. It was… _embarrassment_ , if Draco had to guess, and a surprising mixture of shame and pleasure flooded his body at the thought. He found himself wishing there were a magazine or newspaper on the table, if only so he could occupy his traitorous hands with something other than the _ridiculous_ impulse to reach across the table and run his fingers through Potter’s hair. Instead, he took another sip from his mug before setting it down on the table with a dull thud. “Shouldn’t you be getting your beauty rest, Potter? All of your little _friends_ should be arriving soon.” He tried not to lace too much venom into mention of his companions, but it was difficult. Draco was certain Potter heard the sentence for what it was—thinly-veiled anger.

“It doesn’t change anything, Malfoy. Them being here. We can still—”

“We can still what, Potter? Pretend to tolerate one another?”

“Is that what this is?” Potter asked, and his voice was so soft Draco had to strain to even hear it. Draco kept his gaze trained and impassive as they met Potter’s open, pained eyes. Ridiculous—his emotions would be what damned him in the end. “Pretending to tolerate one another?”

_No_. “Yes.”

“I don’t understand why you’re such a git, Malfoy,” Potter said then, his brows furrowing together and his lips tugging into a frown. _Good. Get angry. It’s easier to hate you this way_ , Draco thought to himself. He stiffened slightly in his chair, one shoulder lifting slightly in a half-hearted shrug as he glared at the boy across the chair from him. No, that wasn’t quite right—somewhere, between their sixth year and now, Harry Potter had become a man. And perhaps he’d go on to be exactly the sort of man the rest of the world needed. Draco didn’t need him, though; he hadn’t needed anyone in a very long time.

So why, if that was the case, did he have to resist the trembling in his fingers when they were near? Why did he know Potter’s scent as well as his own?

“I think you’re scared,” Potter continued, with much more conviction than Draco believe was possible. Draco’s eyes flashed, steel grey turning to molten silver, before he managed to compose himself.

“What would I have to be scared of, Potter? It sounds like you’re projecting your mommy issues again.” But if Draco was expecting Potter to take the bait, he was sorely disappointed. Potter shrugged the words off until they lay crumbled between them, harsh and hollow insults that had none of Draco’s usual bite and malice behind them.

“I think you’re scared of showing people who you really are. I think that’s why you hide behind insults because you—you’re trying to _protect_ yourself or something.”

“Or maybe you’re just an easy pick, Potter—after all, you’ve got a bloody target plastered to your forehead,” Draco commented, jerking a finger towards Potter’s scar. He took one last drink from his mug of tea, pushing the cup away and moving to stand. He needed to get out of here before he said the wrong thing; before Potter’s gaze stripped him bare like a fucking fool. “I’m finished with this conversation. If I wanted a therapy session, I would have sought out literally _anyone_ more qualified. Kreacher, perhaps.”

“Don’t you see?” Potter protested, scrambling to his feet. His feet got tangled with the legs in his chair, causing him to look a bit like a fumbling new-born faun as he shot to his feet. _This_ was the man who had poisoned Draco’s thoughts for months? He nearly Avada’d himself right in that moment, if only to spare himself the utter humiliation. “You’re pushing me away. Why? I thought we were becoming—”

“What, Potter? You thought we were becoming _friends_?” The word scorched his tongue. In that moment, Draco Malfoy wanted to burn the entire world down to ash and cinder.

“Well…er…yeah. Yes, I did.” Potter looked almost uncertain as he spoke, his voice wavering on the last word.

“I’m not your friend, Potter,” Draco said at last, his voice much too quiet for the silence that stretched tangibly between him. Thick and suffocating, as though it had a life and will of its own. He turned, then, unable to bear the weight of Potter’s gaze any longer, as he made his way back towards the hall. He had made it no sooner than the doorway, though, then he heard Potter’s final plea.

“Just…tell me what I did wrong.”

“You didn’t come,” Draco said, the words slipping past his lips before he could rein them in. Cursing himself for his foolishness, Draco turned around slowly and found Potter…staring at him. Wide-eyed and confused, his lips parted slightly, either in astonishment or confusion at the words that had tumbled out of his mouth. Draco knew he didn’t need to elaborate—Potter would understand exactly what he meant. By the look in his eyes, the fluttering of recognition, he knew his words had landed their intended mark. Deciding that his grave had already been dug, Draco continued. “But no worries, Potter. You don’t have to pretend anymore. Your friends are coming, here to save their beloved Boy Who Lived.”

He paused, his breathing ragged, as he glared at Potter. The dark-haired man stood mere feet away from him now, something like shock and anguish flickering across his devastatingly beautiful face. But where Draco was cold and impassive, always attempting to guard his emotions from the cruelty of the outside world, Harry Potter was an open book, begging to be read.

“It’s never been pretending with you, Draco,” Potter managed at last. And perhaps it was the confession falling from his lips, or the sound of his name curving around Potter’s pointed mouth, that caused Draco to let out a muffled sound of anguish.

“You treat me like I’m some sort of fool, Potter. Don’t toy with me.”

“I would never treat you like a _fool_ —maybe in school, but now. I think about you—I don’t know why, not when you’re such a _git_ , I just think you’re—” Potter cut off, abruptly, as though the words would not form on his lips. Draco watched as Potter reached forward, his fumbling fingers finding purchase in Draco’s shirt, as he dragged their bodies closer and pressed his lips against Draco’s. Fire ignited at his touch, flames washed away by the sensation of ice and water flooding his senses. Draco stood in his pajamas, his heart racing like a caged hummingbird, and _Harry Potter was kissing him_.

There was momentarily silence, where Draco mistook the rushing in his ears for the roar of the ocean, but then he was kissing Potter back. Greedy and all-consuming, he parted his lips like petals blooming in a rosebud. The kiss was not kind and soft; it spoke of anger and rage, of weeks, months, and years spent fuming and fighting against one another. Draco’s hand slid around the back of Potter’s neck, his fingers curling in the soft locks of hair that brushed against the Gryffindor’s throat, and swore he felt salvation in the touch. Draco Malfoy was cursed, a sinner on his knees come to beg forgiveness, and Harry Potter was the rushing light that beckoned him home. A low, grumbling moan of surprise erupted in Potter’s throat as Draco’s teeth skimmed against Potter’s swollen, plush lower lip, and then he was being propelled backwards, Draco’s back rutting up against the wall as Potter pressed their bodies together.

Draco’s hands, with a traitorous mind of their own, slid down the sides of Potter’s torso. Where Draco was lithe with hard, sharp angles, Potter was soft and warm. Draco’s fingers skimmed the hem of Potter’s shirt, his fingers sliding underneath the fabric to splay his palm across the Seeker’s ridged torso. They were like fire and ice, kissing with a fury and terror that threatened to send entire mountains crumbling beneath them. Draco was not kind in his desperation, and Potter was both fervent and frantic, as though they feared they could not get enough of each other. Draco needed more, now, fast, hard; he needed so much of Potter that he was afraid he was going to burst apart at the seams. His fingers slipped up, up, until they pressed against Potter’s chest, a faint staccato thrumming underneath his palm. His fingers curled inwards, slightly, as he broke their kiss, panting, long enough to murmur—“I can feel your heart.” What he didn’t say, as their eyes met in the hollow darkness between the ocean’s waves and splintering moonlight, settled between them. _It’s mine_.

“I can feel yours, too,” Potter murmured, his own hand sliding up to rest on Draco’s chest, his hands sliding up underneath his t-shirt to reach that treacherous, pounding organ lodged between his ribs. The contact sent rioting shivers erupting down the base of his spine—he clenched his jaw, exhaling harshly through his nose, at the content. Draco was a hopeless fool, for as he felt his heart thrumming underneath Potter’s fingers, all he could think was: _It’s yours._ But he would never admit these thoughts aloud, as cursed as they were on the tip of his tongue. Draco didn’t need to look down to know the proof of his arousal was tented against his pajama bottoms, and he knew the evidence would be persistent and present in the lines and contours of Potter’s body, as well. And he might have dragged that blasted, curved mouth towards him again, damning himself to the duplicitous and feverish longings of his heart, had he not heard a resounding crack outside of Shell Cottage. The signal that someone had arrived by Portkey and was likely making their way to the lodge now.

“Your friends are here, Potter,” Draco said, relishing in the way his warm breath stirred Potter’s unruly hair. Had it been only moments ago he’d been feeling that hair between his fingers, warm and soft like silk and rushing water? It wasn’t his hair that Draco was focused on at present, though—no, it was the way the light in Potter’s eyes had dimmed, albeit slightly, like storm clouds passing over a meadow. “You’d better give them the welcome wagon treatment.”

“I don’t want to forget this happened,” Potter confessed in a rush, even as Draco disentangled their limbs and sought to smooth his blonde hair. He found he couldn’t quite meet Potter in the eye, even as he heard muffled voices from outside the cottage. It was the plea that fell from Potter’s lips, though, that snagged at something deep in Draco’s heart. “Please. Malfoy.”

“Then don’t forget,” Draco said calmly, in a voice much more even than he felt, as he at last turned to face Potter. He looked like an avenging angel, from his kiss-swollen lips to the glaze in his claret green eyes; eyes Draco was certain he could lose himself inside of, if he dared to look long enough. He paused, his lips parting just slightly, before gathering the courage to speak again. “I believe, after all, we have a chess match to finish.”

Something small and warm, like a smile, kindled itself in Potter’s eyes and reflected itself on his face, a ghosted expression as he watched Draco back towards the banister.

“Right. We have a score to settle.”

“I hope you’re prepared to lose, Potter—I don’t like things left unfinished.”

And perhaps it was the wind rustling through the house, or the waves lapping against the shore, but as Draco ascended the steps towards his room again, he could have sworn he heard a low, rumbling laugh tumbling from Harry Potter. He re-entered his darkened room, assessing the unkempt sheets and quilts strewn about the mattress, and sent one last longing look towards the brass doorknob that separated his room from the rest of the house. Still, as Draco climbed into bed, his heart whirring in his chest, he found himself fixated on that door.

He had, after all, left it unlocked.


End file.
